The tricky thing about the perfect sky is that the words that try are angry little boys who can’t reach the basket rim.
The perfect sky sighs and moans in anticipation of the wetness that builds relentlessly aching for release.
The perfect sky shows you a glimpse of Kali and Shiva destroying and rebirthing in the very same tumultuous smears of a grey that is almost purple of a blue that is really grey but not. None of the metals fit, they are too stern and still for the perfect sky.
The thing about the perfect sky is the glow of the greens of the treetops against that backdrop, the leaves somehow performing an undiscovered secret of photosynthesis in which the sunlight emanates quietly from each leaf’s veins.
The perfect sky reveals the lovers of swollen stormy sky embracing golden green treetops in a luminescent, spark-crackling, electricity.
The thing about the perfect sky is its luminosity behind the layer we see.
The tricky thing about life is the way it is the perfect sky.